


Chastisement

by ClementineStarling



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex As Punishment, Birching, Corporal Punishment, Creampie, Dom/sub, Edging, Face Slapping, Humiliation, M/M, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex, The Insinuation of Rape, a bit of spanking, actual tears, implied loss of virginity, obviously, ruined orgasm, this is fantasy not real BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 17:04:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6478648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blackwood has never thought of Coward as dominant until he catches him slapping a servant boy around.<br/>This calls for all kinds of punishment.</p><p>(Also, the poor, poor servant! Coward is a terrible employer!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chastisement

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhat inspired by [viceindustrious](http://archiveofourown.org/users/viceindustrious)'s switchery prompt: "So obviously they don't think about it in these sorts of terms, but when it comes to bdsm, Coward is a total switch.  
> How do they deal with this?  
> Does Blackwood let Coward have his own fun with a sub every now and then?  
> Is he too possessive for that and wants to suppress it entirely?  
> Does he like to watch?  
> Does it give him ~confusing~ feelings?  
> Does he worry that allowing Coward that kind of power will make him forget his proper place?  
> All possibilities!"
> 
> So this is what my brain came up with...
> 
> _  
> And again, just to make sure, no one stumbles in here by accident: Please have a look at the tags and be aware of the non-con-warning!

He should have known. Coward should have told him, he ought not have secrets. He agreed to tell him about his every desire, confess every sin and lustful thought that crosses his mind as though Blackwood were his priest. That was the deal they struck, and now it turns out he broke it. Omission, concealment, whatever it was, in Blackwood's eyes there isn't much difference between such dishonesties and straightforward lies. 

And yet, perhaps he would still have condoned Coward's transgression, had he not found out about it by accident.

Coward clearly thinks himself unobserved when Blackwood catches him slapping a servant boy late one afternoon in the library. He doesn't know Blackwood is early for their appointment, standing in the open door to the parlour; he doesn't notice him watching the back of his hand hit the footman's face with such force, the boy's head is knocked to the side and he loses his balance; otherwise he would not have done it, Blackwood is sure of it. And he realises he is actually surprised. It's not so much the circumstance Coward would raise his hand against an employee that puzzles him. Like so many others he grew up in the belief the lower classes owed him their obedience, that they were made to serve people like him. It's a conviction that runs deep, as deep as the love for their country or the opinion that women are fundamentally different from men, that bread must cost money and the sun will rise in the east. Every gentleman would think himself within his good right to punish a servant for an offence, regardless his own predilections. 

It would be foolish to assume a connection between the arrogance of an aristocrat and the sort of natural dominance men like Blackwood possess. On the contrary, something about their status makes so many of those fine lords crave submission. But while they surrender to Blackwood with the eagerness of dogs, ready to debase themselves at a wave of his hand, they would not dream of letting on to their preferences. Outside the bedroom, toward their inferiors, they play the role of master to perfection. They are aristocrats after all, and it's their birth right to expect their servants' best efforts. So naturally Coward would feel perfectly entitled to chastise a servant for disappointing him.

Only usually these slaps to the face are meant to humiliate, to put someone back in their proper place. They are of a more symbolic nature. But this is different, not just the usual indignation of a master displeased with the shortcomings of a servant. This is designed to hurt. There is something queer in Coward's demeanour, something Blackwood has not seen in him yet.

Absurdly it's the footman who gives it away. How he falls to his knees immediately (the blow may have been hard, but not hard enough to strike him down), how he bends over, forehead to the floor (such unseemly submission). Blackwood knows he will try to press his lips to Coward's shoes in a plea for forgiveness before it happens. That's not how people act of their own accord. The boy has been taught.

Blackwood steps back into the parlour without making his presence known. He does not have to watch it to be aware what will happen next, he has seen it countless times, how the foot will be pulled away in a denial of that apologetic kiss, how it will connect with ribs, hard enough to bruise, how the boy will roll on his back like a dog, offer the rest of his body for further punishment. How eventually the sole of Coward's shoe will press against his throat or his groin, eliciting a yelp of despair.

Emotion is flickering inside him as he pours himself a drink; he cannot quite name what he is feeling, it may be in parts the warmth of pride, the sting of jealousy, the sharpness of anger and also the burning sensation of disappointment: Coward should have confessed to this, should have come and asked for permission to pursue his desires, not just taken what he wants. 

Blackwood offers no explanation when he has Coward fetch the birch, and Coward is too well trained to ask for a reason. The question is obvious though as he looks at him, pupils wide with apprehension. He undresses silently, bends over the desk without being ordered, just as he knows Blackwood expects him to.

At least he understands how to serve his cause, Blackwood thinks, that his best chance to placate Blackwood's temper lies in unquestioning obedience. While begging tends to achieve the exact opposite of mercy, Blackwood is usually appeased by a demonstration of compliance. 

And how could he not take pleasure in the sight of Coward naked and gorgeous before him, waiting so patiently for his punishment? He reaches out, trails his fingers lightly over Coward's back, the resulting tremble so sweet he can almost taste it. Although untouched his pale skin is already flushed – with shame or arousal, perhaps both. Blackwood does not care much about what it is. This exercise may – to a degree – be for Coward's benefit, for his betterment, a lesson so to speak, but it's not the _reason_ he'll whip him, and Coward comprehends that with every fibre of his being.

Blackwood will hit him simply because he wants to, and his will and wish is the supreme, is the _only_ law of Coward's existence. 

The birch cuts through the air with a hiss, biting into Coward's back and arse and thighs, leaving angry red welts and little doubt about Blackwood's intention – this is not meant as titillation. And yet the anticipation is worse that the impact it appears, Coward is tense and rigid when he hears the swish of the rod and the blows makes him flinch and jerk, but at the same time something in him seems to give for a moment, as if the pain came with a secret relief. He tries to keep quiet, but he can't help the gasps that escape him, small stifled noises of distress, that soon sound too much like broken moans for Blackwood not to comment on them.

“You do like that, don't you?” he asks before he brings down the rod with even more vigour. 

Coward sobs his answer. 

He knows better than to lie, just as he knows better than to beg. He tried both in the very beginning, and Blackwood taught him quickly about the futility of such attempts. “Just look at your little cock,” he said, hand closing cruelly around Coward's stiff flesh, “you can't deny how excited you are about this.” And the responding twitch of Coward's cock was enough confirmation.

Now he does not even bother to check for Coward's arousal, he is safe in assuming it; there hasn't been anything Blackwood's done to him he did not enjoy. 

“You're such a slut for the pain,” Blackwood remarks to accompany another vicious blow.

This time Coward yelps, the knuckles of his fingers turning white as he is scrabbling for purchase on the desk top. His muscles shiver with tension while he is waiting for the next strike. 

“You should have told me you do not only like receiving it,” Blackwood says. Coward inhales sharply as if about to speak, but Blackwood is not ready to hear his apologies. “You can keep your mouth shut. I shall let you know when I want you to explain yourself.”

Blackwood adds another welt to the pattern adorning Coward's back before he lets go of the birch, which clatters to the floor. He would expect Coward to relax, now that the beating is officially over, but the opposite happens: he looks even more taut-strung, the muscles in his back bunching together, his thighs tense. He wants to beg, wants to prostrate himself before him, Blackwood knows only too well, Coward cannot bear being at odds with him. 

“You may thank me for your punishment now, Coward,” he says as he raises his fingers to loosen his cravat. 

Coward's voice is rough with relief when he utters his gratitude. “Thank you, my lord, I do not deserve your attentions, I am not worthy... I know I should have... I am so sorry--”

Blackwood's hand on his skin interrupts his babble. He runs his forefinger from the small of his back downwards, through the cleft of his arse, probing. When he reaches the velvety skin of his hole, Coward's breath catches. He has prepared himself as thoroughly as Blackwood has come to expect of him, the muscle stretched, glistening with the wetness of oil. When he wants, Coward can be such a good boy.

Blackwood takes away his hand to busy himself with opening his trousers and Coward actually gives an anticipatory moan, even though he should be aware that what Blackwood is intending to give him won't be a reward. At least no more than every time Blackwood puts his cock in that unworthy hole of his is a reward, an honour Coward may or may not deserve, depending on his current level of inadequacy. Blackwood is so difficult to please and yet it only makes Coward try harder.

It may be what Blackwood likes best about him; it appeals to him to almost the same degree as the infliction of pain – when his fingers close around his cock to give himself a couple of strokes in preparation, he realises the he is already hard enough. He takes his time nonetheless, tugs at himself several times, savouring the familiar pressure of his fingers, the slide of skin over his swollen flesh, how deliciously it slips over the fat pink glans. When Coward has been good, he lets him suck it before he fucks him and Coward always does so with relish, as if there was nothing more marvellous in the whole wide world than to take Blackwood's cock into his mouth. It is a good thought to begin with, even though Coward has hardly earned a treat today. 

“Did you fuck him too, your footman?” Blackwood says when he is lining himself up, his cockhead pressing slowly into Coward, not unlike a weapon slicing into flesh – Blackwood is determined to make this unpleasant rather than gratifying.

Coward, who's finally understood the reason for Blackwood's anger, freezes under him.  
“No, no, I didn't. Please, I would never--” There is such desperation in his voice, Blackwood can feel the thrill of it as a tingling at the base of his spine. 

“Tell me what it is, that you'd never do, Coward,” he growls, pushing himself as deep as possible into Coward's body. Coward, though used to being taken rough and fast, yelps in pain. It's an almost dog-like whine that makes the arousal in Blackwood's stomach coil tighter. 

“Would you never think of another man? Desire him? Touch him? Make him a little fucktoy of your own?”

Coward gasps, Blackwood's thrusts are merciless, the angle just wrong. Coward tries to argue his point nevertheless, breathless, broken words falling from his mouth between pants and moans. “I, I would never... my lord, you must believe me, I am yours, body and soul, whatever it is you think I did...”

Blackwood stills inside him, something that is even more menacing than the punishing stabs of his cock. “What _I think_ you did?” His tone is quiet, though no less cutting for it; despite the good use he already made of Coward's body he sounds perfectly coherent.

“Forgive me, my lord, I meant to say, whatever it was that displeased you, you must not think...”

“ _I must not_?” Blackwood echoes, a hint of thunder in his voice, and Coward shrinks further under him. 

He is almost crying when he begs for forgiveness this time. 

“Let me tell you what you wanted to do to him, Coward,” Blackwood goes on rather calmly, while he resumes his movements, a bit less angry, a bit more composed this time, so it won't conflict the talking.

“You wanted to use him, just as I am using you, without any regard of his well-being. You wanted to fuck him and take him and claim him, utterly. But worst of all: You wanted to have his sweetness all for yourself, you greedy, greedy thing.” He underlines his words with a couple of vigorous thrusts that have the desk rattling under Coward's weight. “Am I not right?”

He waits for the answer, buried balls-deep in Coward's body who is twitching around him, clearly struggling for countenance. Blackwood can't see his face, but he can imagine the frown, how he bites his bottom lip in an attempt to keep the treacherous sounds inside that would betray what he truly feels – emotions, sensations Blackwood should not be bothered with, least of all when he's decided to use him like this. It's not his responsibility to worry about Coward's feelings, or pleasure for that matter. Not when he's done nothing to deserve it.

“Answer me, Coward!”

“Yes.” The word erupts from him raw and desperate, and Blackwood revels in it. He has Coward nearly where he wants him. 

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I wanted to have him all for myself.”

“See, that wasn't too hard, was it, Coward?”

Blackwood doesn't ask him any more questions after that, just keeps fucking him hard and fast and brutal. There is only one moment, when he leans down a little, to hiss “Don't you dare come” into Coward's ear. Although he's tried to make the angle of his thrusts as uncomfortable as possible, painful, with Coward one can never be sure, whether it's not enough to get him off, without Blackwood's firm hand and watchful eye he'd have no control at all.

An assumption that is proven accurate once Blackwood has finished inside him and caught his breath enough to pull Coward off the desk by the neck: he's made a right mess of the polished wood, the desktop is covered with the clear streaks of Coward's precum. 

“Just look what you've done, Coward,” Blackwood comments with the flavour of condescending amusement he reserves for occasions like this, and Coward, well trained as he is, makes a move to lean down and lick his mess up, but Blackwood's hold around his neck – accompanied by an impatient click of his tongue – stops him. 

“Go sit on the sofa,” he says before he goes to ring the bell.

When the footman arrives a quarter of an hour later, he finds Blackwood on the settee, Coward curled up naked against his side. Blackwood has his fingers wrapped loosely around Coward's cock, stroking him with the same languid casualness as if he were petting a cat. The movement of his hand is mesmerisingly slow, Coward's cock flushed almost purple and while he is trying his best to keep still, he is failing utterly – his whole body is quaking with pent-up tension.

The footman stares at the scene for a moment, gaping, before he becomes aware of his impudence and casts down his eyes. He is lovely Blackwood has to admit, with his long dark lashes and the unruly mop of equally dark hair. The embarrassed blush only adds to the prettiness: he is a picture of innocence, waiting to be ravished. Someone has clearly a talent for hiring staff. The boy may be a trifle too young for his job, but he is indeed delectable. No wonder Coward wanted him for himself.

“Undress,” Blackwood demands. 

The boy hesitates for the fraction of a second, eyes darting at Coward for guidance, and only moves when Coward gives him a barely noticeable nod. Interesting.

After that the boy is remarkably matter of fact about it all. He sheds his clothes without making a fuss, quickly, efficiently, with only the slightest hint of nervousness. He's either had more training than Coward let on, or he is simply a natural. Blackwood hopes it's the latter. 

The only thing he has to admonish is the unconscious gesture, in which the boy attempts to cover himself once he's taken off the last item of clothing.

“Hands to your sides, boy.” 

He obeys promptly and Blackwood feels Coward shift a little to get a better look at what he reveals and give a sort of satisfied purr when he sees the boy is half-hard already. Blackwood smiles and pets Coward's sweat-damp hair affectionately before he issues the next order.

“To the desk, boy,” he says and the footman, Matthew, does as he is told, his bare feet a soft pitter-patter on the parquet floor as he walks towards the desk. They can see his ears turn bright red when he discovers the puddles of precum on the polished surface. “Clean it up,” Blackwood says and the boy turns around, a questioning look on his flushed face. “With your tongue,” Blackwood elaborates and Coward's cock twitches with excitement in his hand.

They watch the boy as he bends over the desk, bracing himself on his lower arms and sticking out his tongue. He laps up the clear, salty fluid with a low noise, something like an appreciative slurp. “This boy is even more of a slut than you are,” Blackwood whispers into Coward's ear while he keeps stroking him. Coward moans, shivers, and the boy reflects the reaction at the desk, also trembles and sighs with unconcealed enthusiasm. He is still licking at the wood; it takes a lot longer than seems strictly necessary, the boy is not only meticulous, he appears to genuinely enjoy his assigned task.

“Just look at this pretty arse,” Blackwood says, this time loud enough for the boy to hear. “I'll bet he'll be tighter than you ever were, Coward. So nice and narrow and hot, just the right amount of pressure for your cock when you'll push in for the first time.” His fingers tighten around Coward who responds with a strangled sound, his whole body arcing into Blackwood's touch.

“I'm looking forward to see you fuck him, Coward, but I think we'll have to do something about your current state first. We wouldn't want you to embarrass yourself by not even getting your cock fully inside him before you come, would we?”

Blackwood snaps his fingers. “You, boy, get back here! I have another task for you.”

The boy straightens and scampers back to them, a bit uncertain on his feet. The delicious colour on his cheeks and ears has to begun to spread over his chest, he is flushed all over as if in a fever. Between his leg his cock stands stiff and ready.

“What a pretty little prick you have,” Blackwood says. “Come here, let us see.”  
The boy comes closer like pulled on a string.

“Touch him,” Blackwood says to Coward, who reaches out immediately.

The boy almost melts into his hand, sways, overwhelmed.

“So this is what you wanted...” Blackwood says to no one in particular. It's obviously true for both of them. He lets Coward stroke Matthew's cock several times before he tells him to stop and the boy to kneel. And about time, he looks as though he's already close to spilling.

“Have you ever pleasured some with your mouth, boy,” Blackwood inquires, and the boy shakes his head, visibly embarrassed. 

“But you liked the taste of it when you licked it off the table, didn't you?” 

The boy nods, his cock bobbing in affirmation. A pretty little thing indeed.

“How convenient I've got so much more to clean up for you.” 

Blackwood lets go of Coward's cock at last – his hands glide down his trembling thighs to spread them open and present Matthew with his next assignment. Coward's hole is swollen and red and still gaping open a bit, presenting a good view of his insides that are wet with oil and Blackwood's spendings. 

“Go on,” Blackwood says and the boy swallows. His eyes flick from the mess between Cowards legs over the sore-looking length of his erection up to his face, searching for something – a confirmation of the order perhaps? 

“Do it,” Coward breathes. Although he almost delirious with lust by now, it still sounds nothing like a plea, a fact that lets a peculiar pride bloom in Blackwood's chest.

“Clean him up first, then you may suck his cock,” he says and holds Coward while the boy lowers his head to do as he is told. 

Unsurprisingly Coward nearly twists out of Blackwood's arms when Matthew's tongue slips between his legs, the sensation intolerable on the overwrought skin. It takes considerable strength to keep him still enough for Matthew to fulfil his duty, who laps at the puckered flesh, licks eagerly into his body to retrieve every last bit of Blackwood's cum; he is no less thorough than he was when cleaning the desk, and he does not stop until Blackwood tells him to.

“I think that's enough, you can proceed now.” 

The boy has the good sense to lap up the puddle of glassy fluid pooling on Coward's belly too, before he begins the worship of Coward's cock. Blackwood seriously doubts, he told the truth about never having done this before. The sweep of his tongue over the tight, puffy swell of Coward's balls seems too accomplished for a first attempt; he continues the path up the whole length of Coward's cock and only pauses under the rim of the mushroom head to nip gently at the frenulum. Coward nearly screams. Judging from the constant dribble of precum and the strange, flower-like colour of his cock, his arousal must have reached a painful level by now.

“No more teasing,” Blackwood decides and after quick lick at the tip – apparently the temptation is too great not to taste him before he begins to suck him in earnest – the boy obediently puts his mouth on Coward's cock and takes in as much of it as he can without choking. Again it doesn't seem like he has no experience in this and Blackwood makes a mental note to find out later what else he might have withheld from them. 

At the moment he would not be able to talk anyway, not when Coward's hands fly to his head to push him further onto his length, relentless. He doesn't let go, even though Matthew gags and drools, just clutches at his hair to force him into the rhythm he desires. 

Blackwood is astonished and also terribly amused by the absolute pitilessness with which Coward fucks the poor boy's mouth. He can't remember himself having ever been so rough. It's a pleasant surprise though. So pleasant, his own cock is growing hard again at the sight. Something that, despite Coward's derelict state of mind, is not lost on him; he looks up, eyes glazed and moans so prettily, so wantonly as he rubs himself against Blackwood's erection, that Blackwood leans down to kiss him at last on these pretty whorish lips.

He is sure Coward would have cried out, had he not put a stop to it with his tongue; the very second their tongues touch, Coward goes rigid in his arms, every muscle strung to breaking point, before the tension falls apart into a series of orgasmic shudders.

It's only when the last of these shudders has subsided, that Coward lets go of the boy's head. Matthew promptly slumps to the ground, gasping for air like a fish out of water. Blackwood watches him curiously while stroking Coward's hair, waiting for Coward's breath to calm. He takes in the wet lines of tears on his reddened cheeks (probably simply a side effect of gagging around Coward's cock) and the exhausted tremble of his muscles as he lies there. He is still hard though, Blackwood notices with satisfaction, and his eyes are still fixed on Coward who rests with an almost angelic expression against Blackwood's chest. He allows the boy to catch his breath for another moment before he has him get the oil out of the top drawer of the chest standing by the window.

“Prepare yourself,” he says, and when the boy looks at him in confusion, he tells him to lie on the carpet in front of the sofa and spread his legs. 

“Show him,” he whispers into Coward's ear and gives him a gentle nudge. “He is your responsibility now.”

Coward is still clumsy with exhaustion when he kneels down beside Matthew. He doesn't get straight to work but starts with gently tucking a loose strand of hair out of the boy's face, then running his fingers over his cheekbones, across the plush bottom lip. If anyone in the room had harboured a shred of doubt about the nature of Coward's feelings, the gentleness of Coward's touch would have resolved it in an instant. Blackwood feels the same disquieting flicker of emotions inside him, and it is surprisingly difficult to suppress the urge to walk over and drag Coward away from the boy.

He watches how Coward's hands glide over the trembling chest, over the hollow of the boy's stomach. His fingers close briefly around the bobbing erection, moving up and down a couple of times before he lets go again, a move that elicits such a desperate whine, it could have softened a heart of stone. But Coward knows better than to let Blackwood wait or even make him repeat his order.

Whispering instructions, he takes the boy's right hand and coats it with a generous amount of oil, before guiding it between his legs. Coward has him circle the rim of his hole for as long as he dares – Blackwood can see the mounting apprehension in the way he glances at him more and more often, to check for signs of growing impatience. 

“Now dip a finger inside,” he says when he is convinced the boy is relaxed enough to give it a try. 

“That's enough, Coward,” Blackwood interrupts. “He can figure out the rest by himself.” He pats the settee in what is an invitation that cannot be declined, and Coward gets up to return to his side.

They watch the boy playing with his hole, stretching himself open. This at least does not look to much as if he's got any experience, Blackwood thinks contently; he doesn't seem to know what he's doing, but however awkward and uncomfortable he may feel, his gaze doesn't leave Coward for more than the blink of an eye, not even for the comforting illusion of privacy behind closed lids. Although he's clearly mortified, he is even more hungry for Coward's attention. He obviously wants whatever Coward is willing to give him, and he is trying to be so good for him, not even attempting to touch himself anywhere else but where he was told to.

“Come here,” Coward says when he is convinced, the boy is sufficiently prepared; he beckons him to stand in front of the sofa and reaches out to wrap his fingers around his cock again. Matthew's knees buckle at the touch and he has trouble staying on his feet. Blackwood gives an amused chuckle.

“You will not come until I've given you explicit permission, do you understand?” Coward says.

The boy nods and adds, at the sight of Coward's raised eyebrow, “Yes, sir, I understand.”

Coward rewards him with a stroke that almost has him stumble again.  
“You will tell me when you're close.”

“Yes,” the boy breathes, "yes sir" and Blackwood wonders how long it will take until he's not able to stand anymore, let alone give the requested warning, he seems overly excited already. He does better than expected though, apart from the pitiful sounds he makes, that catlike mewling that can't be stifled with threats, not even the bite of teeth. The boy's bottom lip is bleeding from all the moans he tried to keep to himself, and Blackwood is determined to make Coward punish him for this lapse in conduct later, but for the moment he is enjoying the spectacle too much to intervene.

“Close,” the boy says for the third time in what can't have been much more than a couple of minutes; he is in quite a state. If Blackwood had not taken it upon himself to assist Coward by holding him, he would have probably already keeled over. His thighs are shaking worse than Coward's earlier, and his cock jumps desperately every time Coward lets go. Only now he is too late in snatching his hand away, the sad little prick gives another responsive twitch before the creamy liquid wells up from the tip, slowed by the lack of friction but still unmistakably not the clear fluid, the boy is allowed to dribble onto the floor.

The boy cries out in frustration, then, realising his shortcoming, he falls silent in terror. 

“Pathetic,” Coward says, running a finger through the treacherous traces of his ruined orgasm, and the boy flinches as though he'd hit him again.

“Now, what shall I do with you? Apparently you can't be trusted with the simplest of orders. All I asked for was a tiny bit of self-control, to tell me to stop _before_ it was too late, and you can't even do that.” 

The second Blackwood relinquishes his hold on him, the boy slumps to his knees, trying to kiss Coward's feet again. “I'm so sorry, I couldn't... please. I didn't do it on purpose.”

He shouldn't have said that, Blackwood thinks, because what else could Coward do now but take this unintentional cue and twist it around.

“Didn't you? Perhaps it was exactly what you wanted. Weren't you desperate to come? Don't lie to me, boy!”

Blackwood enjoys seeing the emotional turmoil unfold on the boy's face, followed the dawning realisation that there isn't anything he could do to get out of the dilemma. Whatever he might say in his defence, can and will be used against him. But what he does then is about the worst decision he could possibly have come up with – he starts to cry. His lip is trembling and soon fat round tears are rolling down over his cheek. When Blackwood thought earlier, he may be a tad young to be a footman but his looks made up for it, he is reconsidering now.

Such a display of weakness is worse than giving a pack of wolves a taste of blood. Blackwood feels Coward patience snap the split second before he moves; all tiredness forgotten he jumps to his feet and drags the boy up by the hair. Matthew wails, probably more due to shock than pain, and lashes out in panic, which earns him another slap to the face that throws him directly into Blackwood's lap. 

The boy tries to scramble to his feet but Blackwood grabs for his wrists. “Not so fast,” he says. “I don't think your master is finished with you yet.” He holds him down without any effort, even though Matthew is inclined to fight with teeth and claws now, it appears. “You're not doing yourself much of a service here, boy.” His smile is iridescent as the reflection of light in a diamond, and Matthew ceases his resistance, goes all slack against him. 

“Please,” he whispers, and: “Let me go.” 

But Blackwood only laughs and glances up at Coward who looks murderous. “You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?” He can't help himself, the whole situation is just too amusing. He definitely likes Coward when he's in a temper. What a shame he hadn't had the pleasure before!

Without letting go of his wrists he pushes Matthew off him, so he's standing in front of the sofa again, just as before, only this time Coward is behind him and he is not happy (not happy at all!) and the boy's erection is flagging.

“I can hold him for you,” Blackwood offers; instead of a civilised answer Coward merely growls, kicking the boy's feet apart. This feral behaviour suits him better than Blackwood could have imagined. 

“No, no, no, please” the boy repeats like a prayer, his eyes still focussed on Blackwood as if he actually expected him to come to his aid. 

“Don't make it harder for yourself than necessary,” Blackwood says. “Be a good boy and bend over.”

Matthew trembles as he obeys. Blackwood guides his forehead to the back rest of the settee, then closes his fingers around his dainty wrist again to keep him steady. Coward doesn't hold back. He is only using his bare hand but its impact on Matthew's arse is sufficient to make him rock into Blackwood. The boy yelps in pain. The second blow is even harder and the boy starts weeping again. His tears fall on Blackwood's shoulder like strangely hot rain. He is still begging but it's hardly more than incoherent babble by now, a string of distraught nonsense. 

Blackwood counts ten more blows until Coward is done. The boy sags in relief, but from what Blackwood can see over his back it might be a bit early to expect the punishment to be over. Coward has picked up the oil and poured some into his palm, clearly intent on stroking himself to full hardness, and again Blackwood can't suppress a rather sinister smile of proud amusement. 

~


End file.
